Lambs
by BC
Summary: Seven Horcruxes. Seven sacrifices. Harry has to choose six people to willingly die with him.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Summary: Seven Horcruxes. Seven sacrifices. This can't get out, or it's all over. Harry has to choose six people to willingly die with him.

Warnings: AU obviously, the slightest hint of slash, het, mild sexual situations, (Merlin help me) canon pairings, character death, unhappy ending,

A/N: It's an ugly and criminally pointless story, designed to make people cry. It did make me cry at one point there. I don't know why I wrote it. I don't like it. I guess I just couldn't get away from the idea. It snuck upon me and demanded to be written. Don't hate me for it. I think it's probably not worth uploading, but at least it's finished.

It's St Valentine's today, and I just bet there's going to be a slew of _sweet_ romantic fluff posted for the sake of posting _sweet_ romantic fluff, so just allow me to be contrary and disaffected, cynical, antisocial and whatever the heck you want to call me, and upload this piece of unadulterated man-constructed tragedy. _Vivat amor_.

Brynn

x

Lambs

x

"This can't be right!" Harry yelled at Hermione, who flinched.

He immediately backed down, even stepped backwards, away from her. He had never before claimed that she was wrong in her research. He had never accused her of failing. He had never wished she _had_ failed.

Because if she was right… if she was right, then they were going to die.

"It's clear," Hermione told him, biting her lower lip again, possibly drawing blood this time. "We destroyed the physical manifestations without the right rituals, so there's no way we can sever Riddle's links to this plane aside from willingly sacrificing ourselves. It's all very basic and medieval."

It might have been basic and medieval, but it wasn't _acceptable_. "Hermione," Harry said, gripping tightly onto the backrest of her chair, "find _another_ way!"

"There's no other way!" she cried, turning around in the chair so that she could glare at Harry through red-rimmed eyes. "We destroyed the containers without knowing what the heck we were doing, and now it's too late!"

"Hermione," Ron said quietly, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Hermione sagged, and Ron was just in time stepping up so that she would fall against his stomach and remain upright.

"Riddle had to murder someone to sever a piece of his soul and attach it to the physical plane," she explained. "To achieve the opposite effect – un-attaching the soul fragments – a willing sacrifice is necessary."

"The bastard has _six_ Horcruxes," Ron reminded them.

Harry shook his head. "Seven." He ignored the startled looks his friends gave him. He didn't want to share all the details of the memories Snape had given him as he was dying. It was enough for them to know the facts. "He had seven material Horcruxes. We've destroyed five of them. Destroying another will take my life." He didn't want to say it out loud – that _he_ was a Horcrux. It sounded absurd, and yet he could feel it in his very bones now that he had been alerted to it.

"The seventh one?" Hermione asked with enviable pragmatism.

Harry shrugged. "Nagini, _probably_. We can't be sure. There's a tiny chance that we could get her and do the correct ritual with her, but I don't think it's viable. Not if we want to give the Light the means to win the battle tomorrow."

"But…" Ron tried to protest, before he realised that there was nothing to protest. He could argue against facts until he was blue in the face, but he would be helping nothing. In fact, he would be making it all that harder.

Hermione scowled, and looked upwards at Harry. He had never thought of her as pretty or not pretty, but right now she looked the ugliest he had ever seen her – uncompromising and cruel, but at the same time indescribably horrified by what she was doing. "It's up to you," she said.

Those words were a death sentence.

Not for Harry – well, for Harry too, but not in the same way. Harry had long since realised that he was going to die over the course of this war, and Snape's final revelation didn't come as that much of a surprise in the end. So he had to die – and what? Honestly.

The rest of it was what freaked him out. Harry was just fine with laying his life down for what he believed in, but Hermione was asking him to handpick six other people to do the same thing, six people he could trust to go along with the plan and not tell anyone else about what was happening. If Riddle found out he would try to stop them, and he did have the devices that would let him succeed.

"I can't do that," Harry said, shaking his head.

Ron stared at him, pale as a ghost.

Hermione sneered; for a moment she looked like she had been possessed by Snape's spirit. Then she pulled away from Ron and, straight-backed, glared Harry down. "Finding half a dozen people to walk to their deaths on your say-so will be a child-play for _you_."

Harry gulped. Hermione sounded almost like she hated him.

"I'll…" Ron paused. Then he straightened and, like a warrior of old, pulled his shoulders back, thrust his chest out, and proclaimed: "I'll tell Neville. He will want to be a part of this."

Neither Hermione nor Harry said anything as Ron turned on his heel and walked out of the Room of Requirement, slamming the door behind himself.

Harry flinched.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. She was pale and gaunt, a legacy of their pointless Horcrux hunt and several months of intermittent malnourishment. A minute later she swallowed, looked at Harry, and said: "He just needs to be alone for a while."

Harry nodded. "Hopefully, this time he'll come back before we leave."

Hermione graced him with a smile that wasn't completely fake, and laced her fingers on top of her mud-stained knee. "No, I believe he really is going to get Neville. And he'll hurry, because he knows just as good as we do that McGonagall's safety measures will not last the whole twenty-four hours."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, paced along the parlour-like chamber, and eventually flopped down into an armchair that looked like it had been stolen out of the Slytherin common room. He had not had the time to think about McGonagall's defence spell, or whatever it was. He had been running on adrenaline, trying to get the last two Horcruxes so they could confront Voldemort, and then Snape had died and left behind the memories, and Harry had been almost catatonic so that Hermione and Ron had had to drag him to the hospital wing. There they had been – all three of them – pumped full of potions against the advice of Madam Pomfrey, so now they were running on artificial energy.

"We've been awake for almost two days straight," he remarked.

"Forty-seven hours and some change," Hermione specified, glancing at the huge grandfather clock behind Harry's Slytherin armchair, and then she dryly added: "I couldn't sleep if you gave me anesthetics."

"No rest for the weary," Harry repeated something he had heard a long time ago, perhaps from Aunt Petunia.

"We can rest when we're dead," Hermione said with funereal humour. There was a hint of hysteria in her voice.

Harry scowled. She was in need of a good dose of Calming Potion, but they couldn't take it because of all the stimulants and restoratives they had drunk recently. In fact, he was stumped about why he didn't need to calm down. At the moment, he just felt numb. Maybe the hysteria would set in later?

He shuddered.

"The ritual," he said, trying to make Hermione focus on facts, "is it-"

"It's disappointingly simple," Hermione cut in. "The… _sacrifice_… drinks a dose of poison – or kills themselves in some other way, but I strongly suggest we go with poison – then says his or her name, the incantation, the name of the target… that part gets difficult if you kill yourself too quickly, apparently," she explained, and laughed shortly, studying the instructions in the book, "so, once more, I recommend poison."

Harry dumbly nodded.

Hermione stared at him for a while, and then let her head fall back against the backrest of her chair and stared at the ceiling for a change. Then she sobbed.

"It's okay," Harry told her. "I knew I would probably-"

Hermione sobbed again.

Harry stood and crossed the room to her, to hug her or somehow try and offer comfort, but she raised her hands palm-out and cringed away from him. "You and your saving people thing."

He guessed that maybe Hermione, too, had suspected for some time that Harry wasn't going to survive the war. Harry just didn't seem to be able to reconcile the 'saving people' thing with the 'asking six people to die' thing. He felt lightheaded.

"Go and brood," Hermione told him. "Think about whom you're going to ask. Let me read."

Harry obeyed, and went back to the armchair. It figured that Hermione was going to read. That was what she usually did when facing a crisis – turned to books in search of a solution. This case was unprecedented in that she didn't like the solution she found there. If Harry knew her as well as he thought he knew her, she was searching for a solution to the solution.

When the door opened again, maybe fifteen minutes later, Hermione was nearly tearing her hair out, she was pulling on it so hard, and Harry had not made a sound. He doubted Malfoy or any of his lackeys would willingly participate in this ritual, and Harry wasn't even sure he would have had the guts to ask them. He had not come up with a single name.

"Hello, Harry," Luna said, standing in the doorway.

Hermione glanced her way and turned back to the book without a word of acknowledgement.

"Hello, Luna," Harry replied. "What are _you_ doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but right now-"

"I am here to participate," Luna replied with a small smile. "I met Ronald on the staircase that leads from the first floor to the gallery, and he was looking rather sick, so I asked him if he had been stung by a glumbumble. He said that if I wanted to know, I should ask you, but I suspect that there is no glumbumble here. It is, after all, not the season."

Hermione snorted under her breath. Harry could see her shaking her head, bent over the tome.

"No, there aren't any glumbumbles here," Harry confirmed.

"Are we going to die?" Luna asked in that completely calm tone of hers that could have been apathy as well as sarcasm.

"I am," Harry replied.

"Me, too," Hermione added, as if that was a done deal.

Luna blinked, very slowly, and then asked: "Am I going to die?"

"No," Harry said decisively.

Hermione snorted again. "Unless you volunteer," she said. "We're looking for volunteers." She snapped _the book_ shut, stood up, and met Luna's eye.

Luna shifted her stare from her to Harry and back.

"No!" Harry repeated, climbing to his feet. He was ready to get into a brawl with Hermione over this.

"Oh," Luna said. "Are we ending our lives in despair and hoping that we can avoid horrible torture, or is this an ingenious way of demoralising Lord Voldemort by killing his opposition and denying him the opportunity to do it himself?"

Neither Harry nor Hermione had an immediate reply to that, trying to process the question again and again, until it started making sense.

"Or both?" Luna suggested.

"Uh… neither?" Harry opined, although he wasn't quite certain that there wasn't a bit of both the options Luna mentioned. He, for one, would be quite glad to avoid torture. Also, denying Voldemort the chance to kill him was always a good thing, wasn't it?

"We're doing a sacrificial ritual to make Riddle mortal," Hermione stated.

"Are we?" Neville asked, stepping into the room. "Good to know. Where do you want me?"

"Neville!" Harry protested.

The boy shrugged, crossed the distance from the door to the sofa, where he flopped down and pillowed his head on his arms. "You're missing desserts," he stated and snapped his fingers.

A tray appeared on the table, laden with an assortment of éclairs and, Harry suspected especially for him, treacle tarts.

Luna came over, daintily picked up a chocolate éclair and nibbled on it.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged and took a tart, too.

Ron, who had unnoticed trudged in after Neville, swooped upon the tray like a swarm of locusts.

Harry was fairly certain that neither of them were in their right minds. "Guys, I can't ask you to do this! Damn it, I can't bloody ask anyone-"

"If you don't do this, you will kill everyone you know by inaction. It sucks, but that's what it is," Neville growled and sat up to glower at Harry. "And I will be there, because I might not be as good or as strong as my parents, but I'm not a bloody hypocrite."

"Neville, I can't-"

"You _must_!" the young man snapped. "No excuses. You _will_ do this."

Harry hid his face in his hands. "Neville… Why? I can't just ask someone to die!"

"You can, and you will. Because if you don't, _everyone_ will die. Are you getting this yet?"

Harry subconsciously backed away. He couldn't recall this shy, soft-spoken boy ever yelling at him. Neville wiped his sticky fingers on the edge of his robe and squared his shoulders. He was trembling, and his eyes were bloodshot. Harry had not noticed before.

Too much time under the Carrows' Cruciatus, he guessed. Permanent nerve damage. Damn.

"Neville…" he whispered.

"He's right, Harry," Hermione said, compulsively clutching her wand.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, while Luna took another chocolate éclair.

"Yeah, mate," Ron agreed. There were tears on his face. Harry couldn't remember ever seeing Ron crying. "And we-" he broke off, glancing at Hermione. "_I_ will be there."

"Me too," Hermione said definitively.

Harry belatedly remembered that Hermione had Obliviated her parents, so they wouldn't miss her. Her only close friends were Harry, Ron, and maybe Ginny, so in the end, from an objective point of view, Hermione was a logical choice.

Ron was the exact opposite.

Harry wasn't going to let Ginny become involved in this balls-up even if it cost them the war. Some things just weren't worth it.

And Ron obviously agreed. "No!" he exclaimed. "No, you've got to-"

"Do you for a second imagine it would be easier for me to let you die than for you to let me?" Hermione shouted.

"…no," Ron admitted, choked up.

"Good," she concluded. "We are going to find Fred and George. There is nothing in there saying that we have to do this sober."

Watching four of the bravest people he had ever known discuss their suicide made Harry want to die. He guessed it was divine humour. Some deity somewhere was laughing themselves sick about making near-kids happy that they were forced to die for the sake of some higher ideal.

"Nothing," Harry agreed, since he had read the page over Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione nodded. "Fine. That's… that's good. Now, if you'll excuse us, Ron and I are going to have sex. Bye."

"W-we… we're _what_?" Ron stammered as she grabbed his arm and started dragging him out of the room.

Hermione halted and glared up at him. "Do you, or do you not want to die a virgin? Because if you do, I'll find someone else!"

"I…" There was a long pause as Ron's mind struggled to comprehend the premise and formulate an appropriate response. "…don't."

"Good." Hermione nodded once, and pulled him along. "Harry, we'll find the twins on our way and get us the alcohol."

When Harry unglued his eyes from the exit where both of his best friends had just disappeared on a surreal but at the same time perfectly logical quest, he saw Luna tilt her head and scrutinise Neville through narrowed eyes.

Neville heaved himself upright. "May I have this dance?" he inquired with a sardonic tilt of his lips, and offered his hand to the girl.

Luna smiled at him and put her hand into his. "I've always liked dancing."

Harry gaped. Somehow, this was all happening without any input from him. His friends were refusing to listen to him when he asked them to not die.

"Harry…" Neville said, "…go find Ginny or something."

Of course they wanted privacy for this. Harry could have kicked himself for not getting the hint without Neville coming out and saying it, but at the same time he didn't know what to do or where to go hide for the next couple of hours. Ron and Hermione would be back by sundown for sure, and… well, Neville and Luna should be _not busy_ by that time, too.

"I'm not going to sleep with my ex-girlfriend just because I'm about to die," Harry said, and freaked out at hearing himself saying it.

"Yes, you are," Ginny's voice replied.

"Ginny?" Harry gaped. Was he hallucinating now? Where had she come from? How long had she been there? And – was that _his_ Invisibility Cloak? "What are you doing here?"

"What? Did you think I wouldn't find out about your last act of self-sacrifice? I should have expected this when I fell for a bloody _hero_." Ginny had never looked as attractive as she did spitting out the word 'hero' like a curse.

"I hoped you wouldn't," Harry admitted, feeling stupider and stupider with every passing minute.

"Tough luck, Wonder Boy," Ginny replied, without consideration for his confused feelings, his lack of sleep that was slowly but surely morphing into irrationality and disassociation, and his swiftly approaching death. "Come on." She wound her arm through his and almost gently led him away.

Harry let her. He stared at the portraits as they walked along the corridors, and they were watching him back with demure expressions. The ghost of Helena Ravenclaw floated in the opposite direction, acknowledging Harry with a haughty sniff. Peeves took one look at him, hunched over as if he was in physical pain, and sank through the floor.

"Harry…?" Ginny poked him to reassure herself that he was still alive.

"Hm?"

She shook her head and spoke a password in some strange language to a knob-less door. The door slid open. Behind it was an obviously unused, dust-covered music room. There was a huge harpsichord in the corner, a grand piano to the right, and a mountain of old, yellowed muggle notepaper in the centre of the tiled floor.

"We're not using protection," Ginny stated.

"_What?_" Harry finally managed to pull away from her. He tried to put some distance between them, but the door had closed again and the room really wasn't big enough for hide-and-seek.

"The odds aren't too good, but if I end up pregnant, I'll be glad," Ginny informed him.

Harry didn't want to do this. He had a war to fight. He wanted – _needed_ – to concentrate on defeating Voldemort. He had broken up with Ginny for a reason. He didn't have time and energy for her, and he never would have. "You… you can't-"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't do, Mr Hero!" Ginny hissed at him, putting her hands on her hips. With her teeth bared, she was as intimidating as Sphinx. "This is my choice. I might not be dying with you, but I want something to keep. And I want you to have a legacy, if at all possible. Just don't think about it, okay?"

Ginny pulled her shirt over her head without unbuttoning it and undid her bra. Then it became really easy to 'not think about it.'

x

Harry watched the sun set through the window of the music room.

Then he dressed, feeling murky despite the Cleaning Charm he had cast on himself and his clothes, woke Ginny, who had nodded off while he brooded, and together they returned to the Room of Requirement.

He was absurdly languid, until he spotted Neville, Luna, Ron, Hermione, Fred and George sitting around the table. Then it felt like a cannon ball had been dropped into his stomach. His knees damn near gave out on him, so heavy he felt.

"No," Ginny whispered, stepping up to his side. All four Weasleys were so pale that their freckles stood out starkly.

Harry agreed. He scowled so hard he thought the lines might remain permanently etched into his face.

"We found Fred and George," Ron said – as if that hadn't been obvious.

Hermione pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose.

Luna was too intent on drawing strange shapes into the velvet upholstery of the sofa to acknowledge anything else, and Neville was thumbing through _the book_.

Fred looked between Harry and Ginny and sighed.

"What the Hell?" Harry demanded.

"We came to join this den of iniquity," George said.

"Iniquity's fun, and we want a bit of it, too," Fred added.

"No…" Ron said. He turned around and buried his face in Hermione's shoulder. "You weren't supposed to find out! You should have just gotten us the Firewhisky… Mum's gonna kill me."

Fred laughed. "She'll have to resurrect you first-"

"-and if she does, we'll get the same treatment," George finished, grinning. There were crow's feet around his eyes, though, hinting at stress.

Harry had always known that the twins were smarter than they pretended, and seeing them now just confirmed his suspicions.

"…you both?" he said helplessly. He felt like he was murdering them – these two wonderful geniuses who made him laugh so many times, whom he had given the Triwizard winnings to help them pursue their dream.

"You need people, right?" George asked, clutching onto Fred's hand so hard that Fred yelped in pain.

"Why the fuck can't I point at fucking Umbridge?" Harry shouted. He hit the wall with his fist. It hurt, but he barely felt it over the huge, stifling cloud of despair and self-hatred.

"Because that would be too easy," Luna informed him uncompromisingly. "The point of sacrifice is to give up something you love. You have to suffer for it to count."

Bloody fantastic. Spectacular. That helped _so_ much.

George hummed. "Do you-"

"What?" Harry barked, far harsher than he had any right to be. There just… there just were no moral and ethical guidelines for a situation like this, and he was not capable of dealing with it by following his instincts. He wanted – _had _– to protect his friends. But if by protecting them he was dooming them to death or slavery to Voldemort, what was such protection worth?

He had fundamentally failed – as a hero, as a Gryffindor, and in the end even as a human being.

"We'll add another person," Ginny said, obviously searching for a way to get her brothers out of this mess.

"I'm not letting you!" Harry growled. "Sorry if that offends you, but no way-"

"That's nice of you, Harry, but I wasn't offering," Ginny retorted. "I have _five_ brothers who would rather hog-tie me and lock me in the broom cupboard than let me die, regardless of whether it was my decision."

"Good!" Harry agreed vehemently.

"Whatever, Golden Boy." Ginny rolled her eyes. "I was going to suggest you ask Colin."

"Colin? Colin Creevey?" Harry repeated, raising his hand to silence their audience when they started speaking over one another.

They quieted. After a moment of hesitation, the twins pulled bottles out of their robe pockets and offered them. Hermione hexed off the stoppers.

"Yeah," Ginny confirmed. "I have it on a good authority that he would do just about anything for you."

"That makes no sense," Harry protested.

Ginny shrugged. "To you? Maybe. I just understand how he feels. We used to commiserate."

"I'm lost," Harry told her. He grabbed one of the bottles from Ron's hand and took a swig. The liquid burned his tongue and his throat, and sank into his stomach, where it joined the huge leaden ball and made Harry want to throw up.

"I know," Ginny said, sitting down in between the twins, who each automatically put an arm around her. "You were always kind of thick about these things. Never mind, anyway. Just trust me, and ask him."

Harry tried to protest again, but Hermione elbowed him into the stomach, and he had to keep his mouth shut because otherwise he would have vomited for real.

"Go and _ask_!" Neville ordered.

When Ron gave Harry the most pathetic pleading look imaginable, Harry gave up and went to the Gryffindor Tower, where they had sent the original inhabitants of the Room of Requirement after they had chased the Death Eaters out of the school.

He came to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, and realised that he didn't feel up to entering the common room and facing all those people who were depending on him. It would just make him feel the enormity of his task, and the necessity of his inexcusable actions, and he wanted to spare himself that hurt, if at all possible. He didn't deserve mercy, but he was too tired already to torture himself needlessly.

"Can you ask Colin Creevey to come out, please?" he said to the painted woman.

"A second, Mr Potter," she replied, and disappeared into the background of her picture.

The portal opened a while later, and Colin climbed out of it, dressed in his muggle clothes, with messy hair grown too long and deep circles under his eyes. He looked like death warmed over, and Harry felt his heart constrict. He opened his mouth, but no sound would come out of it.

"Harry?" the boy bade him.

Hell, Colin was _sixteen_. Not even an adult yet.

"Are you alright?" he asked, worried for Harry, who absolutely wasn't worth it.

Harry shook his head.

Colin reached out to touch him, but changed his mind mid-motion. He let his hand fall down, yet continued looking at Harry with wide, begging eyes. "Can I help you?"

Harry nodded.

"How? Just tell me!"

Harry took several deep breaths. He had to look away. He chose a spot on the floor, swallowed, and finally managed to say: "We're doing a ritual. S-seven willing s-sacrifices…" He choked.

Oh Merlin, he had never hated anyone, not Voldemort and not Bellatrix, as much as he hated himself at the moment. He shouldn't have done this. Not to a child. He was no better than Dumbledore, manipulating a kid into sacrificing himself.

Colin continued staring for a protracted while. He became progressively greyer and seemed to shrink.

Harry closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and prayed to any listening deity that the boy would say no.

"Of… Of course I will. Y-yes. Yes, I will… Harry," Colin stammered. "J-just…"

Harry wanted to tell him that he didn't have to do it, but right as he was about to say it, he realised how cruel it would have been.

"I'm sorry," he said instead. Pathetic, but it was the best he could do.

"It's okay!" Colin assured him hastily, grinning, even though he was green around the gills and shaking like a leaf. It only made Harry feel worse. "I'll j-just… Just tell Dennis what's going on. C-can you… go ahead? Y-you're in the DA room, right?"

Harry nodded. Of course he could bloody go ahead and give Colin the time to process what was going on. Harry didn't know the boy well; just well enough to be sure that Colin wouldn't get cold feet and back out, even after the enormity of Harry's request had penetrated. There was… there was nothing to say. No 'good luck' or 'take care' or 'break a leg' this time. Harry couldn't offer commiseration or encouragement.

So he just stood there like a heel while Colin climbed through the portrait-guarded entrance into the common room, and then forced his feet to carry him to the seventh floor and the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. On the way he dropped by a bathroom and threw up everything in his stomach – mostly potions.

"He agreed," Ginny stated as first when Harry came back.

He frankly didn't care how she knew. He accepted the tumbler one of the twins pressed into his hand and nervously paced, hoping to shake off the residual nausea. Obviously, it refused to be washed down by alcohol. "He wanted a while to talk to his brother."

There were solemn nods around the table.

"So, how are we killing ourselves today?" George inquired with a plastic grin.

Luna pulled a flask from under a fold of her dress, and passed it to Hermione for inspection.

"Don't do this," Harry told the twins. "Guys, we don't need you to do this. I just have to find one more person."

"And you've got the lambs lined up?" Fred asked mockingly.

Harry flinched and shuddered. He thought that he could guilt Seamus into doing it, maybe. Then he felt truly evil for the first time. He had felt like that when he had asked Colin. Dean he wouldn't even consider. Dean was too good to be wasted as a human sacrifice. Not that Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Fred, George and Colin weren't. It was just… different. The people around him now all had some kind of an investment in him. Dean and Seamus were impartial.

Harry had very few real friends. Sirius was dead. Remus and Tonks had just had a baby, so they were out. Hagrid? He wouldn't ask. Hagrid would say yes, but Harry had the niggling feeling that maybe Hagrid wouldn't exactly realise what he was agreeing to or why. And if he would realise that, he would agree for the wrong reasons.

No more Weasleys. One would have been far too many, in his opinion. Two were unconscionable.

Who was left? The rest of the Dumbledore's army were healthily skeptical of him. Dennis – no bloody way was he pulling Colin's little brother into this. The staff? Snape would have done it without a second's thought, Harry was sure, but Hogwarts needed McGonagall and Flitwick, and Harry wouldn't trust the other teaches as far as he could throw them. They wouldn't believe him, anyway.

There was no one else in the castle. Harry would have to take the twins' offer.

He felt like throwing up again, but there was nothing left in his stomach. "One of you," he said. "Just one."

"But…" George tried to protest.

The twins looked at each other. Fred pulled his brother closer, until they were standing with foreheads pressed to one another's. George wanted to argue, Harry could see it, but there was relief in Fred, and he could already tell which of the twins would be joining him, and which would be left behind.

Hapless, Harry stared at his hands – the hands of a murderer, unstained by blood but no less bathed in it. Who could be so cruel as to separate twins? Fred and George were closer than any other two human beings could be, and Harry was forcefully splitting them apart.

"I can't do this," Harry muttered.

Ron's supportive hand on his shoulder felt white-hot.

"I'll go with Harry," Fred whispered, smiling. "You take care of… everything."

"I love you," George said helplessly, clinging to Fred, squeezing him around the shoulders and burying his face in Fred's nape. His body was shaking with sobs.

Ginny was crying with them, and so was Ron. Like an infectious disease, it spread around the room. Hermione was the next to fall onto a sofa, curl up and start bawling into her knees. Harry just stood there, feeling cold and sick, as if there was a dementor hugging him.

Neville took a spot in the corner on the room, arms crossed in front of his chest, more stoic than Harry had ever seen him, and next to him was Luna, looking solemn and ever-so-slightly superhuman in her calm acceptance.

"I love you too," Fred replied, rocking his twin from side to side. "You name you first-born after me, got it?"

"Got it," George replied, trying to grin through the tears. "Man, you stay safe, got it?"

"Got it," Fred replied, and they both laughed until they were sick and just folded to the floor, hanging onto each other.

There was a knock on the door. Luna went to open it, and she tacitly gestured Colin inside, not even mentioning Dennis, who was clinging to his arm.

"S-sorry…" Colin tried to apologise, for whatever imagined infraction, but fortunately he was prevented from it by Hermione.

"Letters!" the girl proclaimed, sniffling into her handkerchief. "All of us will want to say goodbye. And wills, for those of us who are of age, at least."

Luna took Colin by his free hand and led him, and with him Dennis, to the table. The Room adjusted for the newcomers, and they sat down onto a settee that just squeezed itself between two armchairs. Ron mutely forced a glass with Firewhisky into Colin's hand, and after a short contemplation he poured one for Dennis, too.

The Room, reacting to their needs, provided parchment and self-inking quills. Fred and George remained piled up on the floor, with George clutching onto his brother who put down a probably mocking and morbid farewell and left all his worldly possessions to his twin.

Colin had a bit of trouble with his writing, because Dennis initially refused to let go of him. Hermione went about hers swiftly and methodically, getting done the fastest. Ron dithered, scratched out what he had already written, and probably ended up awkwardly apologising to his parents. Luna didn't write anything for herself, but put down what Neville dictated to her in undertone.

Harry stared at the parchment in front of him. He had to write something. He had to split his things between the Weasleys and the Lupins, with a special provision in case Ginny was – good Merlin! – _pregnant_, and he had to let the world know that Snape was not a traitor to the Light, after all. It wasn't that much, in the end. He named George the executor of his will, apologised for not managing to off Voldemort by himself and… that was it.

"Done?" Ginny asked.

"Yeah," Harry answered, with everyone echoing him.

Ginny gathered the letters, cast some privacy and durability charms on them, just in case, and hid them away. She hugged everyone as she passed them, and received a kiss from Luna, who in turn made a round of the room and kissed everyone, including Dennis, who was probably in shock because had yet to say anything.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hermione offered, settling _the book_ on her knees as the company seated themselves around the table. "The process is simple. You drink. You state your _whole_ name, and then you say '_kátthane_, Tom Marvolo Riddle' and that's it."

"_Kátthane_," Harry repeated. He wasn't the only one.

"I will go first," Hermione decided. It was probably wise, as she was the one whose example they would follow. "Then-"

"Me," Harry interjected. He didn't want to have to watch his friends die, knowing he was responsible for it happening.

"Okay…" Hermione allowed. "Then Harry. Then Ron," she said, because Ron had squeezed her fingers in silent request. "After him Fred, then Colin, Neville, and finally Luna. Is that okay?"

It was most definitely not okay, but no one objected.

Hermione nodded, and poured a little poison into everyone's tumbler.

When each of them had his or her dose, Colin turned to look at Harry. "Do you think… think you could…?"

"What?" Harry asked, stumped.

"Nothing," Colin said, turning away.

"He wants you to kiss him," Ginny said quietly from Harry's other side.

Harry gaped, at first at her, then at Colin. "A… I'm not getting it."

Ginny sighed. "I told you, you were thick. Do you think you could? Kiss him, I mean?"

Harry thought about it. This whole shindig was completely surreal, and he wasn't exactly sober. Fred and George had come through and provided some quality alcohol that had taken off the edge from the experience. Harry tried to imagine kissing a boy, and he failed to account for any difference between that and kissing a girl, so he figured that if he closed his eyes, he could do it. No sweat.

"Colin?" he said.

"Hm?" The boy still refused to look at Harry.

Harry hesitated, but Ginny shoved him forwards. When he turned to give her a questioning glance, she was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I've had you," she whispered, "for a little while, at least. He's going to die for you, no questions asked. I know you don't believe us, because we're _fans_, but he really does love you. He wouldn't be doing this otherwise."

Harry looked at the back of Colin's neck, which was bright pink with a spreading blush. Obviously, he had listened to Harry's and Ginny's quiet conversation, and was embarrassed by being outed twice by Ginny.

Harry realised how laughable a kiss was as a price to ask for dying. He would have been the most despicable person on Earth (bar Voldemort) if he couldn't do this. So he took his glasses off, stashed them in his pocket, put his arm around Colin's shoulder's and pulled him closer.

Colin looked up at him, startled and all blurred due to Harry's myopia, so Harry leaned down, closed his eyes, and kissed.

It was alright. Colin began to cry, mid-snog, and Harry had a not-so-nice flashback to Cho, but the way the boy's hands clutched onto Harry's robe, and the way he just gave himself over, were completely new. Harry had never experienced anything like that, and in the end – maybe a minute later – of that incredible while, he was glad he had done it. He was glad he had had the chance to do it.

"Thank you," he whispered to Colin, forestalling any attempts on expressions of gratitude from Colin's side, which would have made him feel really rotten. He turned to Ginny and George. "You two, tell everyone to hit Riddle with anything and everything tomorrow. He'll be perfectly mortal."

"Will do," George promised. "And we'll organise some way to transport the seven of you out of here with just the three of us." He pretended he didn't mind when Dennis buried himself against his side.

"Why not ask McGonagall?" Colin spoke up.

Hermione scoffed. "When could Harry rely on McGonagall with anything?"

While Harry – and a few others – were busy gaping at Miss Prefect with fallen jaws, Ron nodded. "She was only on our side against Umbridge, and even then she didn't actually do anything."

"Harry always had to save us," Dennis said quietly. "Harry always saves us." It could have been an accusation, but it wasn't. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you, everyone."

Harry closed his eyes. He was briefly suffused with hatred for Dumbledore. It should not have been him. It never should have been him. But it had been, and it was, and he did what he could, and he carried the guilt of failure.

"We are not lambs walking blindly to the slaughter, Harry," Luna informed him, smiling. "We are rams and ewes, leading the flock to the greener pastures. And you are our shepherd."

"Tonight, the wolves will howl their last," Neville added darkly.

"I'll drink to that!" George exclaimed and raised his glass in a mocking toast.

In the meantime, Ron and Hermione shared a short, quiet kiss, and then Hermione downed her shot.

"Hermione Jean Granger. _Kátthane_, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

She sagged into Ron's arms, and expectantly turned her eyes to Harry.

Harry felt a tear slide down his cheek, but he gulped down the poison and said: "Harry James Potter. _Kátthane_, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

A second later he felt completely boneless. Vaguely, he was aware of someone touching him and of hearing Ron's name…

x

Death seemed to look like King's Cross station, if it had been flooded with bleach for a few days and then hosed off.

Dumbledore's presence there made Harry suspect that he was probably in the waiting room of Hell. Then Dumbledore opened his mouth and started a long, pointless explanation about how he and Voldemort were misunderstood and it was Harry's obligation to bring tolerance, love and harmony into the world, at which point Harry seriously regretted not having his wand on him to hex the old man.

There was still the option of punching Dumbledore in the face.

"You're saying I've got to go back?" he asked, clenching his fists. He was practically quaking with anger, worse even than Neville had been trembling due to the nerve damage. Damn Dumbledore straight to the pit of Tartaros, seriously.

"That is up to you," Dumbledore informed him jovially.

"I've got a choice?"

"Oh yes." Dumbledore smiled at him. "We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let's say… board a train. I believe," said Dumbledore, "that if you choose to return, there is a chance that Voldemort may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry: you have less to fear from returning here than he does."

"You're joking, right?" With the great relish, Harry used the years of experience with disrespecting Snape to add: "…_sir_."

"Not at all, my dear boy," Dumbledore replied, as if he had not noticed the black cloud hovering over Harry. "You have shown remarkable nerve, and you have proven your courage in the fight against Voldemort. As the Master of all three Hallows, you may decide to return to life."

Harry didn't even try to imagine waking up to face Ginny, George and Dennis, and tell them that he alone lived, because of some bloody coincidence. Even if he couldn't have seen the faces of his friends watching him through the window of the nearby coach, he never would have accepted that deal.

"They died because I asked them to," he said. "I'm going with them, wherever the Hell we might be headed." And if he was right and they were boarding the express to Hell, then so be it. These six had his back, and he had theirs.


End file.
